


Malibu

by wildechilde17



Series: The business trilogy [14]
Category: Marvel Cinematic Universe, The Avengers (Marvel Movies)
Genre: Advent Calendar, Christmas Party, Dancing, F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-12-16
Updated: 2016-12-16
Packaged: 2018-09-08 23:04:34
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 835
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8866912
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/wildechilde17/pseuds/wildechilde17
Summary: Clintasha Advent Prompt Day fifteen: Parties





	

**Author's Note:**

  * For [This Girl Is (non_sequential)](https://archiveofourown.org/users/non_sequential/gifts), [Kataleena](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Kataleena/gifts), [annabella_5](https://archiveofourown.org/users/annabella_5/gifts), [LateOwl](https://archiveofourown.org/users/LateOwl/gifts).



“Barton,” she says and he didn’t hear her approach.  She is at his right elbow, ignoring the fact that he was in mid conversation with Cap and Stark.

“Yeah,” he says over the top of his drink.  You can say what you will about Stark but the man knows what is what when it comes to good hooch. 

“Ask me to dance?” she says.  It is firm and she doesn’t look at anyone else but him.

“What, now?”

“I want to dance.”

“Oh, right,” he coughs and ignores the way Rogers looks away mildly embarrassed and Stark eyes him either calculating the new relationship variables or the quips he could make.  “Um, Romanoff, dance?”

“I want to be asked to dance properly.” She rolls her eyes.

“You sure you want _me_ to do it then?”

“Barton,” she says and it is a tone that cannot be brokered with. 

“Yes ma’am.  Natasha,” he dips slightly, “would you do me the honor of a dance?”

“Why, I thought you’d never ask,” she purrs languidly and puts her hand out like she expects it to be kissed while Rogers smiles behind her. 

He takes it, hands Rogers his drink and smirking tugs her out towards the dance floor.

“That’s why he doesn’t have a girlfriend,” Stark says when they are barely three footsteps away.

“Barton?” Rogers asks as if he could mistake the pronoun for anyone else.

“Can’t see any one squaring up to The Black Widow for his attentions.” Clint can hear the capital letters in the way Tony Stark uses her call sign. 

“Mmm,” Rogers hums, “sure, that’s why.”

“What was that?” Stark says, his head swivelling from watching them make their way to the dance floor. 

The band begins another song, a staccato tango rhythm. 

 “What?”

“You know something?” Stark points.

“Roxanne was written by the Sting, the lead vocalist and bass player of the band The Police?”

“Cute,” Stark says, raising his voice over the music, “Sting, though, just Sting.  The Edge. Just Sting.  No ‘bout Barton?  You know something about Barton.”

“No,” Steve Rogers replies. He appears to searching the room for anyone else to speak to.

Natasha swings out and back into his arms, his hand is on the small of her back just as it curves outwards.  She is not wearing satin or silk but the fabric is soft and a delicate peachy pink colour that does not look widow like at all. 

“Gay? Asexual?” Stark says following the Captain as he negotiates his way around the crowded parts of the room. “Actual hawk made man? Lost his manhood in an unfortunate arrow accident? Frozen in the mid-forties, never got his groove back? Pheromones that repulse…”

Rogers stops, “You don’t think this is his business and his alone, Tony?” 

“No.  Why would _I_ think that?” Stark says outraged. 

Natasha can make anyone look like an excellent dancer. She is light and perfectly poised, even in heels he could never imagine balancing on and he can walk tightropes.  She has done something to her hair, it sits not in curls but in waves like the ocean and it makes him think of unreachable green lights and jazz music. 

Natasha is warm and moves with the music like it lives inside her skin.

Natasha smells of something dark and rich and vaguely sacred. 

“You can tell them if you want,” she says, her eyes flashing in the gloom of the elegant bar Stark has hired or bought outright for a Christmas party no one seems to have wanted and yet all attend.

“Tell them what?”

Her lips part, there is a microsecond flash of a frown and then she says, “No rooftops.”

“Tasha, it’s never been about telling.”

“It hasn’t.” It stops short of being a question.

“No,” he says, “It’s about being.”

“They talk.”

“They,” he huffs, and rolls her back out of his arms before pulling her back towards him. “Stark talks.  Stark can’t help himself.  I reckon if he stops talking, it’s time that we all gotta worry.  And the others, if they ask?  I won’t lie.” 

She raises an eyebrow, “You’re betting they won’t ask.”

“I hate dancing,” he says instead.

“Fine,” she answers releasing her fingers from around his hand.

“No,” he says, pulling her towards him more tightly, “Natasha, I hate dancing, I hate penguin suits and drinks with umbrellas. I love dancing with you. You and me, we never needed big public shows of affection unless…”

“Unless it’s a distraction.”

“Yeah,” he smiles, “I don’t need the world to know.  I just need…”

Her smile only curls up one side of her mouth but it is honest, honest in a way only Natasha Romanoff can be. “Me too,” she says.

He grins. To hell with Stark’s mouth, Rogers’ shovel talks, Baby Maximoff’s mind reading, to hell with Hill’s sharp glare and Fury’s judgement. 

“Gonna dip you now.” 

With deep red lips and her leg already moving to lock around his right, she answers only, “Show off.” 

 

**Author's Note:**

> Yes, I got out of order due to the last week at work before the holiday break. I will back fill tomorrow and Sunday.


End file.
